The Saint Simonian
by TheHighestPie
Summary: Geeky author-fic is an underappreciated genre. How Victor Hugo learned about the consequences of the multiple Saint-Simons on a luckless "Saint-Simonian" poet.


Here's one for the history nerds. 

For everyone else who's decided to give this a chance: the Duc de Saint-Simon was a nobleman who wrote his bitter _Memoirs_ about what it was like to be at Versailles under Louis XIV. They were as biased as all-get-out, but are now considered a definitive Historical Document.

The Comte de Saint-Simon, a distant relative of the above duc, was the founder of French socialism (and arguably the founder of socialism itself). Whiny aristocrat vs. proto-commie...makes a bit of a difference.

"**On one day of rioting, a young poet, named Paul Aime Garnier, was pursued in the Place Royale, with a bayonet at his loins, and only escaped by taking refuge under the porte-cochere of No. 6. They shouted:--"There's another of those Saint-Simonians!" and they wanted to kill him. Now, he had under his arm a volume of the memoirs of the Duc de Saint-Simon. A National Guard had read the words Saint-Simon on the book, and had shouted: "Death!""**

And who moved into No. 6, Place Royale in October 1832? None other than one Victor Hugo. I have no idea if Paul-Aimé Garnier actually existed, but it's enchanting to think of the conversation that could have occurred between the two men: "So you live here now? Back in June, during the Lamarque riots, this house saved my life! How, you say? Well…"

* * *

Dear M. Hugo,

I cannot express how overjoyed I was to meet you the other day in front of your new residence. Not only is it always enjoyable to speak with a brother poet, but…one of your illustrious stature! I was quite nearly overcome with excitement.

I write, as you asked me to, to describe the most singular relationship that I have with No. 6, Place Royale. As I said yesterday, your porte-cochere may well have saved my life.

Before I plunge into my narrative, perhaps a bit of information about me is necessary. I am, by and large, a reasonable man. I do my best not to concern myself with politics, but as politics feature so prominently in my story, I suppose that my views should be addressed. Despite the periods of melancholy that are so necessary to our art, I am quite contented with both myself and with the government. The reign of his majesty Louis-Philippe seems to my unconcerned eye the highest peak that France has reached in her glorious history. We have a constitution, we have general stability, and the king does not try to hide crimes by claiming to act in the name of Our Lord. Somewhere between the tyranny of the elite and the tyranny of the masses lies our current generous monarch. What more, I ask you, could we ask for?

My point is only this: you can tell that I am not a radical man. My poetry concerns itself with love, nature, and history, and stays far away from the ugly territory of polemics. Thus, you can understand why my experiences of June 5 were such an unwelcome surprise.

You see, I had been reading the Duc de Saint-Simon's _Memoirs_ about his experiences at Versailles under the Sun King. It really is a splendid history. The man's complaints can become a bit grating after a time, but his flights of language! How sublime! (And I do admit that I do hold a certain romantical fondness for the splendors of our now-extinct Bourbons – I blame Chénier) And then those blasted riots broke out.

I hold the firm belief that, in times of unrest, it is best to continue life as normal. To do otherwise is only to encourage the radicals and to further hurt the business of the city. Therefore, on June 5, I resolved to, as much as possible, adhere to my normal schedule, visiting my normal haunts, and – here was my near-fatal error – reading my book.

Perhaps the best testimony to my character is that it never even occurred to me that the name Saint-Simon would have any meaning beyond that of the famous duc. I was minding my own business, strolling near the Place Royale, when I suddenly heard a shout.

"There's another of those Saint-Simonians!" It was a National Guardsman. I jumped and looked about, but saw no individual of an apparently radical persuasion in the area, so continued on my way.

"You there!" another Guardsman, apparently their commander, shouted. "Stop moving! Surrender now!"

It was then that it dawned upon me that they were addressing me, although their rationale was not yet obvious. I spun around and found myself facing a squad of crazed Guardsmen.

"DEATH!" one bellowed. "DEATH TO ALL INSURGENTS!"

And so I did what any sensible man faced with a wall of angry bayonets would do: I ran for my life.

They set up a shout and followed close on my heels. The way they were screaming for my blood, you would think that they were a pack of red American savages hungry for my heart. 

Without thinking of where I was going, I found myself in the Place Royale. Running as I have never run before, I regarded the perfect square rising above my head as a cage; I believed myself I dead man, and I did not even know what I had done. "Saint-Simonian?" What nonsense!

Then, in the sudden clarity of desperation, I thought of the volume that was still tucked beneath my arm: on the cover, in bright gold letters, was the label "Saint-Simon." I was carrying about the _Duc_, and they thought me guilty of sympathies to the _Comte_.

Inspiration struck. "Here are our plans!" I cried, and threw the book over my shoulder. I did not chance a glance backward, but the grunt I heard leads me to believe that my valiant volume hit one of those dunces in the head. Praying to all the saints (and cursing all false prophets like the worthless radical of whom I was now accused of following), I ducked into the porte-cochere of the dwelling that I later identified as No. 6. Several moments later, boots and screams thundered past.

I lay quaking in terror in the shadows of the porte-cochere for three-quarters of an hour as mud seeped up through my clothes. I waited for another twenty minutes to compose myself, and then ten more to steel myself against the humiliation of walking home in my soiled attire (in addition to the mud, a splinter in the wood hiding me had utterly destroyed my sleeve as I had flung myself down). Finally, I rose and returned to my apartment to compose an angry letter to the paper about the unruly behavior of the Guard.

That, my brother poet, is my luckless tale.

I despise all radicals. They ruined the funeral of a great general, they destroyed buildings and streets, they threatened stability, and they were indirectly responsible for the loss of my book, coat, and trousers.

Do they never stop to think of the consequences of their actions?

I eagerly await the upcoming sentencing of Charles Jeanne. I care little for politics, but it will be good to see the man suffer as he made the rest of Paris suffer. How do you think he will be punished?

Again, it was truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I pray it would not be too presumptuous to hope that we may work together someday.

Yours truly,

Paul-Aimé Garnier


End file.
